


Tin of Beans

by shelleysprometheus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Casablanca References, Emotionally self indulgent fluff, Everyone is in love with Rick Blaine, Lots of POVing, M/M, Mature tag only for the "anticipatory erection", Other than that no need to get too excited, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Two Beautiful Worlds Collide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 10:44:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14423715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shelleysprometheus/pseuds/shelleysprometheus
Summary: I suppose he really shouldn't be surprised, Sherlock is not really one for Hollywood films, no matter how “classic” or “influential” they might be. But surely Casablanca is a film that no one should go their life without seeing at least once?It doesn't really matter how it ends, it just matters that it starts…





	Tin of Beans

**Author's Note:**

  * For [88thParallel (CanadaHolm)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadaHolm/gifts).



> I have always loved Casablanca and when @FreeThemFrom1895 gave me the “Tin of Beans” prompt I was smitten. But the path of true love never does run smooth and no matter how hard I tried to make their endings coincide, it just wouldn't happen. And then in swept @88thParallel, my knight in shining armor (and hence why I gifted it to her, I hope she doesn't mind the fluff), with the perfect question: “so you are trying to figure out how to end it?” and I realized that it doesn't really matter how it ends, it just matters that it starts…
> 
> So, this is for @FreeThemFrom1895, @88thParallel, @coopsbird, @fellshish, @mandapanda8, @holmezyan, @asleepatlast and @steadmentalityengineer, to the start and the continuation of a beautiful friendship.

**_Sherlock_ **

 

The client, Milton, is sitting in the middle of the long couch. Head in his slightly pudgy hands, elbows on the knees of his unironed pants, gulping air between loud ( _and rather unnecessarily annoying_ ) sobs.

 

_Mid forties, IT worker, living with his mother, two cats, lonely._

 

Sherlock doesn't even need Milton to speak.

 

_Met online. Female. Above average attractiveness. Eastern European. Hasty declarations of love. Poorly thought through promises of marriage. Provision of large sums of money to facilitate exit from unfortunate circumstances. Contact ceases. Scam. Simple, effective, largely untraceable; wrinkled, overweight, lonely Milton didn't stand a chance._

 

Sherlock opens his mouth to declare as much and John fixes him with his Captain John Watson, “shut it Sherlock!” look.

 

Sherlock acquiesces ( _albeit begrudgingly_ ) to John’s request, not because (he tells himself) he was just ordered to, but because he can see that Milton’s plight is tugging at John’s ( _overdeveloped and over-exercised_ ) heartstrings. Instead, Sherlock opts for pace the circumference of the living room rug in ill disguised frustration, silky dressing gown fluttering rapidly behind him as John pulls a chair up nice and close to Milton to settle in and bear witness to his tale of woe.

 

Surprisingly, Milton manages both to start and to finish his ( _pathetic_ ) tale through a litany of never ending sniffles and sobs.

 

“I know what you are thinking”, Milton looks up with large sad eyes at John as he begs. “Sad, lonely, desperate man gets taken advantage of ( _interesting, showing insight_ ). I know that the problems of two little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world (Miton smiles wryly at John at this, and John smiles wryly back _, interesting_ ), but it’s not a scam. She truly is the love of my life and she is in serious trouble. Will you please help me?”

 

Sherlock doesn’t hear the question, instead focusing on the mistaken metaphor in Milton's plea. “Actually, a small tin of beans seems quite an appropriate amount,” he points out.

“Hill, Sherlock,” John corrects him turning in his chair to look at him. Sherlock looks at John  uncomprehendingly, so John repeats ( _as if Sherlock is some sort of idiot!_ ). “Hill of beans… you know … Casablanca?”

 

“Yes of course I know Casablanca,” Sherlock dismisses John’s comment curtly. “Located in the central-western part of Morocco bordering the Atlantic Ocean. The largest city in Morocco. Also the largest city in the Maghreb. One of the largest and most important cities in Africa, both economically and demographically.”

 

Michael unwisely chooses this precise moment to regain his composure and gives Sherlock a look of incredulity and with undisguised scorn unwisely blurts out. “You’ve never seen Casablanca?”

 

**_John_ **

 

The instant Sherlock stops pacing and freezes Milton with an intense stare, John knows that there is absolutely nothing he will be able to say now to stop Sherlock from eviscerating Milton on the spot. In attempt to avoid said public and ruthless removal of organs, John stands, quickly grabbing the coat Milton discarded upon entering the flat and, pushing it towards him, ushers Milton towards and out the door  with a hasty “yes, yes, thank you, I think that we have all that we need, we will be in touch.”

 

John closes the door, relaxes back against it and sighs. Crisis averted. Casting a glance towards Sherlock who has, in the short time taken for Milton to exit, managed to drape himself elegantly over the vacated couch in a tangle of limbs and silk, John rubs the beginning of stubble on his chin thoughtfully.

 

I suppose he really shouldn't be surprised, Sherlock is not really one for Hollywood films, no matter how “classic” or “influential” they might be. But surely Casablanca is a film that no one should go their life without seeing at least once? Romance aside, the genesis of the United States’ persona of the “leader of the free world, intervening in difficult situations to ensure undemocratic evil did not overtake the earth” should be worth a watch?

 

But more interesting than the cultural importance of the film is that Sherlock, the most flamboyant and enigmatic person John has ever had the pleasure of knowing, has not had the opportunity to be introduced to Rick Blaine, the most flamboyant and enigmatic character John has ever seen. Well then, time to rectify that oversight.

 

“Dinner? Indian?” John asks, pushing himself off the door and reaching for his wallet and keys on the side table. Hoping that Sherlock has deleted the whole “beans” issue as soon as it had occurred, John aims for nonchalant and hopes he succeeds.“Maybe we can … watch a movie or something as well?”

 

Sherlock harrumphs in what John takes as his tacit agreement and John heads off on his mission.

 

**_Sherlock_ **

 

Sherlock is not really in the mood to endure two hours of John’s puerile taste in films, but he imagines it will be unremarkably bearable. Sherlock predicts wrong. From the moment John returns to the flat an hour later, DVD in one hand, take away in the other, Sherlock, from his position now at the kitchen table peering into his microscope, picks up a different ( _slightly giddy?_ ) energy emanating from his flatmate.

 

Chattering away to himself, John removes the take away containers from the bag and arranges them on the coffee table, chicken tikka masala in front of Sherlock and lamb korma for him, the naan bread he places between them to share. “So I passed by the HMV store on the way back ( _three blocks in the wrong direction actually_ ) and on the spur of the moment ( _no, planned in advance_ ) thought I would pop in to see if they had anything new and I just happened to come across ( _see, deliberately and thoroughly searched for_ ) a copy of Casablanca”. John waves the DVD case in Sherlock's direction.

 

Back to the tin of beans, Sherlock sighs. Obviously he hadn’t been successful in his attempt at deleting that annoying entry from his mind. Sherlock stops work and heads cautiously over to the couch as if concerned the energy John is emitting might be radioactive. John gets up to put the DVD in the player and Sherlock settles himself in front of his dinner at one end of the couch. John returns to the opposite end of the couch and they both begin eating as the opening credits appear. Sherlock hadn't bothered to Google the film, so anticipates some sort of spy movie, the sort that John usually goes for; spies with guns, explosions, a plot that barely holds itself together until the end, that sort of thing.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, fork loaded with chicken halfway to his mouth, he sees John shifting ever so slightly in his seat. Tightening his hamstring to move one leg away from the other and placing a hand ( _not so subtly_ ) over his crotch. _Slight anticipatory erection?_ Sherlock is intrigued. This has never happened before in his viewings with John. _Lots of spies with guns then? Spies with lots of guns?_ He leans forward to pick up the DVD case to read the back as the movie starts playing.

 

It's fifteen minutes into the movie and Sherlock starts to become deeply suspicious. Sure there are spies, and guns but not nearly enough spies with guns to have produced such an arousing effect in John. Sherlock glances over and yes, John's hand is still covering his crotch and has now been joined by his other hand, wedged in between his thighs. And when did the lip licking start? Sherlock's mind stutters with alarm. He snaps his eyes back to the film.

 

“They're in the piano,” Sherlock announces as Captain Renault's men start to search Rick's for the Letters of Transit. “Smart place to put them though,” he admits begrudgingly.

 

“I've always liked Humphrey Bogart," John responds ( _licking his lips again? there is far too much lip licking happening for his liking_ ) as they watch the actor lean against the piano. “And in Casablanca, he is perfect."

 

Perfect? Sherlock’s starts to become annoyed _._ Humphrey, what a ridiculous name! Sherlock decides that it's time to take this movie seriously, starting with this Bogart fellow and for the next half an hour his eyes never leave the screen.

 

What starts out a slight annoyance develops in no short order into a full blown jealous stew in the pit of Sherlocks stomach as he begins to focus all of his attention on Rick. Charming. Yes. Intelligent. Yes. Attractive. Yes, yes, bloody hell yes. John has a crush. On a man. Other than him? This is not to be borne! Humphrey Bogart, as a recipient of John's affection, must be found wanting. Sherlock leans in closer to the screen, fingers steepled at his chin to study his opponent, learn his weaknesses and annihilate him!

 

To Sherlock's surprise, as the film progresses, he finds his jealousy dissipating and being replaced by a feeling somewhat akin to respect. This Rick Blaine is no man’s fool. He has a no-nonsense attitude, and says whatever's on his mind (unless, of course, it serves his purposes to keep it a secret). Admirable traits, and although he probably won't ever admit it, Sherlock finds himself relating to Rick, apart from the lovelorn relationship with “the woman” that is. Sherlock can't for the life of him understand why Rick would drink himself into oblivion over her, completely unworthy, but someone like John …

 

**_John_ **

 

At some point John starts to become aware that Sherlock has forgotten he is in the room. He's not sure when this happened because, truth be told, he had been quite distracted by the beautiful suited man on the screen who reminds him so much of his enigmatic flatmate. Highly intelligent. Emotional but guarded. Pragmatic to the end and stunningly gorgeous. It was bliss being able to stare at this Sherlock stand in, unimpeded by the constraints of social decency. And if the bulge in his pants is anything to go by, his cock certainly didn't seem too constrained either. Admittedly it was a little uncomfortable having sported half a hard on for going on a whole hour now, but John considers it completely worthwhile.

 

John flicks his gaze back and forth between the screen and his flatmate for a few minutes. By this point, realizing Sherlocks unfaltering interest in Rick, John's erection has well and truly wilted and and the earlier pleasure he had at being able to share the experience of this cinematic classic with Sherlock has likewise faded. What the buggering fuck? From the intensity of Sherlock’s focus on Rick, John is beginning to suspect that the interest is not purely cerebral. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! By sheer fate has he finally stumbled upon Sherlock’s type? A man who not even remotely resembles John. Well isn't this fuckingly ironic! All because of the bloody movie that John made him watch. And with that, John is well and truly pissed. He's going to bed! And with that John noisily exits the couch and the room as the airport scene starts to unfold on the screen.

 

**_Sherlock_ **

 

Sherlock doesn't pay attention to John's exit but he cannot help but notice the explosive slamming of John's door upstairs. Sherlock reaches for the remote and turns the DVD player off as he tilts his head in John's direction. Curious. What's even more curious is that he also can't predict the ending of this film; two people in love with the same person is a recipe for disaster. Sherlock spends the rest of the night lying on the couch contemplating the intertwined fates of five people.

 

When John walks into the kitchen the next morning, still in his pajamas and sporting ( _quite cute actually_ ) bed hair, he looks thoroughly pissed off and in absolutely no mood to talk. Similarly, Sherlock, having ended his contemplation last night back at the issue of John and his attraction to someone other than him, is just as surly. They both practically snarl at each other as they reach for the sugar at the same time. Sherlock raises one eyebrow in defiance which seems to infuriate John even more. In the end, rather than concede, neither of them deigns to take sugar in their tea which leaves them both in an even worse mood.

 

“I'll be out all day today,” John announces as he takes leave of the kitchen table to place his dishes in the sink.

 

“You going to be washing those up before you leave?” Sherlock raises one eyebrow, daring John to throw back a rejoinder.

 

John does not disappoint. “I am sure with all the hours you will be spending in the flat today, you could find a couple of minutes to wash them."

 

 _Oh, it's going to be like that then?_ Sherlock decides to up the stakes. “You'll be back home again in time for us to watch the rest of the DVD then? You didn't stick around to see the end last night," Sherlock purrs.

 

John pauses in his exit from the room. His back is turned but Sherlock can see every muscle in his body tensing and his jaw set firmly. “I'll be back in time,” he answers stiffly and he heads to the bathroom.

 

**_John_ **

 

Throughout the day, a day spent doing nothing, nowhere, anywhere, just not at the flat, John becomes more and more convinced that despite giving his word, he’s pretty sure that he is not going to be able to sit through the the rest of the film. And over this point he agonises, and stresses, and thinks and overthinks and dwells, repeatedly. Seriously, is it so bad that Sherlock is not into him the way he is into Sherlock? What’s wrong with friendship, best friends, being mates? It's what they have been all along, so what if that is just the way it is going to continue? But John finds that rationality has no place in the affairs of the heart, well, his heart at least, and as the hours tick by he is no closer to convincing himself of the merits of simply friendship by the time it's time to head home.

 

It is with a start then that when John walks back into the flat at 9pm that night (the latest he could leave it without looking like a complete and utter coward), he realised that he is looking at an equally wrecked Sherlock. From the looks of thing, John takes in Sherlocks position at the kitchen table, Sherlock hasn't moved from where John had left him twelve hours ago. John's breakfast dishes are still in the sink and Sherlocks are still in front of him on the table. This can't go on. John sits back down in the same chair we was in twelve hours ago.

 

“Sorry I’m late Sherlock.” He reaches over to lightly touch the long slim fingers that are resting near the cup filled now with stone cold tea.

 

The touch shocks Sherlock out of his reverie “What do you want John?” He looks unflinchingly at John across the table.

 

And there it is. John looks down at the  beautiful fingers that are still resting under his, and he knows, he's about to do the thinking for both of them.

 

“Can I get you a tea Sherlock?” John moves from his chair, from his table, to put the kettle on. With his back to Sherlock he feels braver.

 

**_Sherlock_ **

 

Watching John as he gathers the cups and spoons, it strikes Sherlock that he has never felt so afraid. Dying, death, physical injury and illness have never hurt him, but this, the turmoil of knowing but not knowing, of wanting but not having, feels like torture of the acutest kind. He wonders how John goes through life living like this. Feeling.

 

“You know how it ends?”

 

John talks to the tea bags he places in the cups. “The film? Yes I do.”

 

“Tell me?”

 

“Yes.” John gathers up the cups, tea bags now steeping, and heads back across to the table, placing his in front of him and sliding Sherlock's into his waiting hand.

 

Sherlock waits.

 

**_John_ **

 

John breathes. “The thing about Casablanca,” he starts, “is that while the experience is different for everyone, it's all about hope. With the exception of the Germans, of course, everyone is hoping for something different, something to give them meaning, a reality outside mere existence, even Rick.”

 

“You like him.” Sherlock sounds wounded and his eyes say as much.

 

“Yes, yes I do,” deep breath. “You want to know why?”

 

Sherlock nods imperceptibly, not breaking John's gaze.

 

“Because he reminds me of you. He’s intelligent, and mysterious and beautiful … and he cares. About people. About what is right.” John releases his cup and reaches for Sherlock’s hand. I know you keep that hidden, that you care. But I know you. I know you do.” Next deep breath. “And I love that about you.”

 

Sherlock's eyes widen and some of the pain seems to leave them. John takes that as a signal to push on, gripping Sherlock’s hand just a little bit tighter to gather a bit more strength. Now the hard bit.

 

“About the ending. The thing is, I don't think it really matters how it ends, what matters is that everyone leaves with their dignity intact. Some get love. Some get unlikely but nevertheless still completely fulfilling friendships….” John's words trail off. His eyes leave Sherlock’s to avoid what he thinks he will find in them and focuses on Sherlock’s hand in his.

 

“Is that what you want, all you want then?” Sherlock’s voice sounds small, distant. “An unlikely but fulfilling friendship?”

 

And there it is again. How is is that Sherlock is so much braver at this?

 

And finally. “No. I want it all. I want the love, the sex, the adventure, the slow times and the fast times, the passion and the anger, the friendship and the loyalty. Sherlock, I don’t know how this is going to end, I don’t know if we can be just as good at more or if we are going to ruin everything. But I don’t care. I don’t care how this story ends, I just want it to start.”

 

At the end of his embarrassingly revealing speech, John looks up cautiously. Sherlock’s smile is incandescent and a slightly embarrassed grin appears on John’s face.

 

“Why Dr Watson” Sherlock says slyly,“ as I always suspected, you're a rank sentimental ….. oof.”  

 

Before Sherlock can finish, John launches himself across the table and, reaching gently for Sherlock's head with both hands to steady him, brings their lips together to silence him.

 

“You know,” John growls softly into Sherlock’s lips as he pulls back just a little, “it’s just to lure you in, you insufferable git.”

 

“It’s working,” Sherlock whispers back as he claims John’s lips once more.


End file.
